Aspirations
by EwanMcGregorIsMyHomeboy12
Summary: Orson Krennic, Military Director, hero of the Empire. His life has been leading to this moment, where he can secure his place in history and the ranks of the Imperial Elite. Snippets of Krennic's Life, the story behind the man behind the most powerful weapon ever created.


**(A/N) Watched Rogue One again, and was just inspired. I find Krennic fascinating, so I hope you enjoy. Please R and R, let me know what you think!**

His mother handed him a packet of field rations once, saying he should get used to the taste if all of his aspirations were to become a low-ranking soldier. She had not believed in his greatness, greatness that it seemed only he could see in his numbered days at home with only her for company. He did not need her, or her cold hands when she handed him the packet with war-scarred hands and no hint of a smile on her face.

He was told he resembled a man whom he had never met, but if there had been some who knew him best, it was clear he shared this woman's coldness for the world. The galaxy was a dark place, and the only ones to rise within it were the people whose darkness exceeded even that. When he went to her grace, months after the funeral he had not attended, he had taken that same bag of rations he had never opened and laid them where her heart might be buried under the dirt.

* * *

He remembers the Jedi. His days at the Futures Academy were short-lived, but the lore associated with their order was a large part of the curriculum he had to learn. Their heroes, their enemies; heroes of the Republic, enemies of the Republic. But then again, he had never been one to accept the lies they had fed him.

It was there he remembers meeting Galen, who excelled in everything that did not require human contact. Droid construction, tech repair, weapons systems. He could start a project and have it finished by the time Krennic could prepare a game of Sabaac. It was then, with Galen and Lyra who did the talking for him, that he decided that the time for games was past. There were things far more important than time spent at Futures, where he seemed to again go unnoticed except for in his attraction of nonchalant friends. Not that he ever called them that, they saw fit to name themselves his friends while he simply moved adjacent to them, satisfying his own needs for a successful future that might include them. Or not.

But he kept his mind on Galen, who he slowly grew a bond with over their mutual interest in Republic politics, and Galen's abysmal ability to write speeches. He noticed several things he thought might be to his advantage: his attachment to Lyra, his inability to lie. But a smile is easy enough to fake, and Orson Krennic is more than smart enough to figure it out.

* * *

He enters the ranks when they are still the ranks of the Republic, staying a low-ranking commanding officer while the Jedi control the vast swaths of soldiers and ships wreaking havoc across star systems. He sees several of them, cavalier and arrogant, but he thinks that there are several who could do with a bit more intelligence. A bit more paying attention to the slow burn of agitation beginning to grow around their Order as the War grows longer and more are lost.

When they fall, it is no surprise to him. When the order comes that they are now under the control of the Emperor, he thinks little of it. When his bunkmate, who he knew had always been an admirer of the Jedi Order, goes missing, he simply enjoys the extra space and knows more than to ask the wrong people the right questions.

* * *

He meets her once he begins advancing. His ability to rally those who are hesitant to his cause is unparalleled by the soldiers around him. She is another who is a shining star in the new Empire, her specialty landing her a position in the Mid-Rim controls alongside him. It is simple enough for him to catch her attention, he knows how to be charming enough, and underneath her veneer, he sees his own ambition mirrored within her.

She tastes like the honey he is now allotted to sweeten his tea, but she is rough-hewn and doesn't appreciate his high casualty rates, even for routine tasks. He thinks he might love her, her body under his, her mouth on his, her clipped words as she pulls his Captain's uniform off of him on their shared ship. But when she is brought it for questioning about her helping the Rebellion, about her suspicious lack of offensive maneuvers in a few odd space fights, and sentenced to death, he knows he loves something else more.

* * *

Galen Erso is easy enough to find, his daughter a newborn baby that Krennic might think was cute if children had any value other than aesthetic gratification. He is happy to help at first, he and Lyra both move into the life of Imperial supports with ease, and bring the child with them. But he can see him faltering. His morals are troubled; Galen does not see the world as he should, where there is only power and those to hold power over.

When the child is around five, they disappear. The dispatch from the Emperor is unnecessary as he commands a ship to Galen's last known coordinates. He has no intention of losing them, of letting his ultimate plan that will grant him unlimited access to all that he needs disappear because of a man with no ambition.

* * *

He assumes the child is dead. Galen works, hunched over at his desk, and never mentions her name out loud. His soldiers were not the ones to kill her, but if the Emperor asks, he will be more than happy to take credit for it. His is promoted to Director shortly after Lyra Erso lies dead in a field and Galen is captive, but now the looming shadow of an old adversary hangs over him.

Tarkin is a looming presence he had never been able to get away from, even on his days as a low-ranking soldier when the Governor could have been called an ally of the Jedi. He is cold, calculating, and seizes every opportunity to take credit for things that he has no place in. Krennic despises him wholeheartedly, knowing that while they may be on the same side and strictly fighting for the same things, they are enemies. And, he has seen that enemies of Tarkin do not last long in the galaxy. But then again, neither do his.

* * *

Galen is dead, his daughter hopefully having joined him on Eadu. He is in the medical ward again, being tended to by a nurse who won't quite meet his eye. He thinks he might have slept with her, in fact he's sure of it as her hands tend to the wound across his back, her fingers tracing familiar territory. "You should rest, Director." She moved around to the face him fully, keeping her eyes down as she removes the last bit of shrapnel from his abdomen with a bacta soaked cloth.

"I will once this is over." He said, and stood as she finished tracing the final corners of the wound. He had been here too often because of Erso, but he supposed that with his body rotting under the constant onslaught of rain on Eadu, this would be the last time. "Thank you." He caught the nurse's lips turn up in a small smile, and had to return it with a small smirk, knowing his earlier inclination had been correct. He enjoyed her nervous attention for another moment, pulling a fresh shirt over his head and watching her eyes linger on his torso for a second longer than they should before she disappeared out the door to tend to other patients. He thought he might take the time to find her name in the registry, perhaps pay a follow-up call, a rare occurrence for him, but something to consider either way. For now, though, he had other things to worry about.

* * *

They still don't appreciate him. His talents. Tarkin is nothing, his audience at Jedha was nothing. Saw Guerra is dead and still he had not been appreciated or congratulated as he should, only questioned by men who have no interest in his goals, only the ones their own small minds can dream up. But he can feel the power rising within him, his own desires beginning to take hold as the Death Star finally is recognized.

His audience with Vader has been granted, and he intends to make sure that he leaves it, securely in charge of his own achievement. Tarkin is nothing, and both of them know it.

* * *

He can see the beach being destroyed, and despite barking orders with confidence, he knows that his interference is needed elsewhere. The scar on his back tingles as he marches through the halls, flanked by two guards. They are in for a fight, one that he intends to win.

He finds them dangling, the woman from the platform who he knows but doesn't want to think about. A man who is an exceptional shot but could do with a better grip as he falls down the tube. He follows her ascent, marching through useless guards and troopers to the elevator that will carry him to end his problems.

* * *

She is surprised to see him, injured from her near death by falling off the tower. He can no longer restrain his anger, the same weakness that he has carried his entire life, but has done his best to restrain in pursuit of success. She warrants it, her face hardened as she stares at him with an open hatred her mirrors. She has come so close to ruining everything, but not anymore.

He feels the blast while he still looks at her face. It rips through already knitted flesh and he collapses from the shock of it, the pain radiating form that simple hole to his entire body. The blood that isn't leaking out of his wound starts to rush in his ears, but he can still hear his failure behind him, the man that shot him restraining Erso before she kills him. He knows he does it for mercy, but this is just elongating his suffering. He can feel his anger again, that same empty feeling he got when he clutched that pack of unopened field rations in his fist, when he was passed over for a promotion, when Tarkin threatened his space station. Only this time it's accentuated with the agony of torn muscles and charred bone, with the sound of every breath overpowering the blaster fire that exploded the beaches below him.

* * *

He leaned up, clutching a hand over the hole in his chest and watched as his accomplishment appeared over the horizon. He wanted to smile at it, at the glory his name would carry from this moment forward. But as he watched, it began to change. He could see the narrow line of it began to pull power and realized that his name would turn to dust with the rest of this planet. All of his life, all of his work, his achievement, his power, his prowess, would be gone at the hands of his own orchestration.

And yet, he couldn't look away. He watched as the beam came, aimed for the base, and he could almost picture Tarkin's face from the window as he called for the blast to be fired. He felt the heat in the split second it came closer, his vision blinded with the light before it connected with the tower and even the pain in his chest disappeared.


End file.
